nodded and looked up at the approaching storm. “Let’s see how far they go before we lose ’em.”
They rode hard due east for another ten minutes before their luck ran out. Fat raindrops splattered the ground for a moment and then the storm unleashed a deluge of water. Win and Eli slowed their horses to a walk and dug out their slickers, crestfallen that Seth’s trail was already gone.
CHAPTER 9
With the storms having passed on to the east, Emma Turner decided to take advantage of the break in the weather and headed down to the river to pick some blackberries that grew wild along the bank. That was the excuse she gave her mother, but what she really wanted was some time alone, which was something hard to come by when you lived around four other families.
Red-haired and blue-eyed, Emma’s thirteen-year-old body was undergoing a transformation. Her breasts were budding out and her woman’s monthly misery had rudely surprised her last month and, as a tomboy, she didn’t know what to think about all of it. Not that she had any choice in the matter. She had a couple of friends who were close to her age who lived east of the ranch and they were already talking about men, marriage, and settling down—all things that Emma had never really considered before. And even if she did think about it the pickings were slim. Available suitors weren’t flooding the ranch to court her. Not that she wanted to be courted. But was that what was expected of her? she wondered. Settle down in a few years and start pushing out babies? That held very little appeal for Emma, who had dreams of seeing a little more of the world beyond this ranch along the river.
“Ouch,” she muttered when her finger snagged a thorn. She stuck her finger in her mouth to suck away the blood as she glanced up at the sun descending toward the horizon and tried to judge how much daylight was left. Maybe an hour or so, she decided as she moved down the bank to another thicket of blackberries. Her mind continued to churn through the new, confusing thoughts invading her brain. Maybe this is what Ma was talking about when she said being a grown-up was hard. As far as Emma was concerned, being a grown-up didn’t appear to be much different from being a kid. They all worked hard.
The water in the river was up after the thundershower and the muddy current churned with a mess of tree limbs, brush, and other discarded items that had dropped into the river upstream. Emma was just hoping the onrush of water would scour away the millions of mosquitoes that called the river home. She moseyed a little farther down the bank to another patch of blackberries as her mind drifted back to her dilemma. Her mother, Abby, always stressed the importance of education and Emma had dreams of going to college back East one day if she could find a college that took girls, that is. And she had made her wishes clear to anyone who would listen. So, marrying and starting a family had zero appeal to her. Maybe someday, but that someday was a long way off.
Hearing the snick of a horse’s hoof hitting a rock, Emma glanced up and dropped her basket of berries. She was surrounded by four Indian braves, their bodies and ponies painted for war.
“He-hello,” Emma stuttered. She pointed toward the ranch buildings and brought her hands to her chest and said, “My home.”
The dark-skinned braves, painted with black and red clay, were dressed only in loincloths and moccasins as they edged their horses closer, never saying a word. Emma backed down the bank and they formed a circle tight around her, blocking her path. She saw no avenue of escape, so she did the first thing that came to mind.
Emma screamed, took a breath, and screamed again.
The nearest Indian leaned down and grabbed Emma around the waist and pulled her onto his horse as easily as if he was plucking the bloom off a rose. Emma screamed again and began hitting, slapping, and scratching—anything to get away. The savage wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her body. Emma started kicking her legs and screaming, trying to break the Indian’s grip, but it was impossible. The Indian calmly steered his horse up the bank as Emma continued to scream and kick. She heard the Indian behind her laughing and that enraged her. She twisted one way and then the other and made no progress. Then she started kicking the horse—in the head, in the shoulders, anywhere she could bury her heels, and the horse plodded onward, unconcerned that she was kicking him as hard as she could. Her voice raw, she tried to scream again, and it came out as a croak. She paused, took a breath, and quickly calculated her options.
Trying a new tactic, she let her body go slack, hoping the Indian would loosen his grip, and all he did was squeeze her harder. Rearing back her leg, she slammed her heel down on the horse’s right ear and he didn’t even flinch. She pounded her head against the Indian’s chest over and over again and all he did was laugh. Knowing there were unspeakable horrors ahead if she didn’t get free, she tried squirming out from beneath his grasp again but it was like she’d been confined in a small box.
Tears coursed down her cheeks as the savages kicked their horses into a gallop, the ranch buildings growing smaller in the distance.
CHAPTER 10
Having seen no sight of the cattle rustlers and, with their trail now washed away, Cyrus, Percy, and the rest of the men rode into Fort Sill as the sun settled on the horizon. Cyrus led them over to the trading post and the men climbed down and tied their horses to the hitch rail. Despite the recent storm, a group of Indians were banging their drums and dancing on the parade grounds.
“If they’s doing a rain dance, it worked,” Cyrus grumbled to Percy.
“Looks like somethin’ has them irritated,” Percy replied as he brushed past his father and stepped up on the post’s porch. He removed his slicker and took off his hat to shake the residual water off.
Built along the Medicine Creek near the Medicine Bluffs, Fort Sill was a fairly recent addition to the string of frontier forts the army was building to clamp down on the marauding Indians who were raiding new settlements along a line that ran from Mexico to the Dakotas. The white man’s westward expansion demanded something be done about the Indians despite the fact the Kiowas, Comanches, and Apaches had roamed that territory for hundreds of years. Marching under the banner of Manifest Destiny, the white settlers believed their cause justified and inevitable, and the sooner the savages were subdued and put where they belonged, the better.
Of course, the Indians thought differently and thus, the continuing conflict.
Fort Sill was laid out in squares with the parade ground serving as the centerpiece. Situated around the square were the trading post, quartermaster’s storehouse, the blacksmith, stables, bunkhouses, officers’ quarters, and, opposite of where they were now, the headquarters for the post commander.
From his place on the porch of the store, Percy took a moment to survey the area. Although called a fort, there were no exterior walls, moats, or anything that might slow an approaching army, which seemed strange to Percy, who had visited his fair share of forts over the years. And the inhabitants of this fort were also different from most. Fort Sill was a menagerie of humanity. In addition to the multitude of different Indian tribes, including different bands of the same tribe, the fort was also home to the U.S. Army’s 10th Cavalry Regiment, one of two cavalry regiments reserved exclusively for black enlisted men. Better known by their Indian name, the Buffalo Soldiers were a seasoned group of hard men presently under the command of Lieutenant Colonel John “Black Jack” Davidson, a man who had visited the ranch many times over the years and whom Percy considered a good friend.
“Isaac, you and Amos keep an eye on the horses,” Cyrus said as he stepped up onto the porch. “Them Injuns’ll steal ’em in a heartbeat.” Cyrus glanced at Percy. “You comin’ in?”
“Naw,”
